


Altamont

by consultingsmartass (consulting_smartass)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Angst, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Winterlock Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consultingsmartass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is dead. James Moriarty, criminal cyberneticist extraordinaire and terror of the Net, has gleefully announced it to the world. But Sherlock is not completely heartless and has given John Watson a way to cope with his death…a program called Altamont.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Altamont

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiltedsyllogism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiltedsyllogism/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Альтамонт](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1314220) by [dzenka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dzenka/pseuds/dzenka)



> This is for the Winterlock exchange for tiltedsyllogism. I really did want to deliver on the requested fluff. But Series 3 dumped hydrofluoric acid onto the fluffy parts of my muse and he is still trying to recover from the resulting burns. Lestradesexwife and LapOtter were unbelievably patient sounding boards, Lestradesexwife provided invaluable final edits, and I am happy to finally complete something with the assistance of the fabulous ADers. Thank you!

The first time he notices the extra data-log on his mind drive, he has just finished wiping all traces of his blog from the Net and is idly scanning through his unsorted files to find any fragments. Thinking it a remnant of Sherlock’s constant ‘borrowing’ of his drive, John tries to delete it. But a snarky message informs him that he requires administrative permission (doesn’t he have that, seeing as this is _his_ drive in _his_ mind?) to complete the action. Just another fragment of Sherlock forever inserted into his life, never to be removed no matter how he might try. And it was just like Sherlock to selfishly corrupt his drive with an un-removable file that probably did nothing.

With a disinterested sigh, John opens the file, expecting a program that can convert toxin concentrations or hack Yard files. Instead, he gets a simple text message, directing him to see Molly, signed by a certain dead consulting detective.

John contemplates the words projected across his eyelids. An ugly, unresolved pain claws at him and John is suddenly disconcerted. He opens his eyes and takes a deep, resolute breath. He could never resist Sherlock Holmes’ commands in life, how can he do it any differently in death?

* * *

“So, he adapted the nanites in my shoulder to migrate to my brain and synch with my mind drive? Why?” asks John, baffled.

Molly shrugs and points to the display. “Their location suggests that Sherlock was trying to build some kind of neural link. Not sure of the purpose yet.”

“A neural link? Like, I can connect to the Net with my mind?”

“No, there’s something else.” She cocks her head and considers the coding. “The commands are far too complex and specific to be…”

John waits patiently for the forensic cyberneticist to process the data, her slightly glowing bionic eyes flicking back and forth at an inhuman speed.

“It’s adaptive!” Molly suddenly gasps. “Oh, wow, this is brilliant. Well, course it is…Sherlock designed it to be.”

“What? How is it brilliant?”

“I think he was in the early stages of building a link exclusive for his access. Not like those open-network portals offered on the Net.” Molly points toward the lower portion of the screen. “See this part here? That’s specifically designed to link between this program and another. And then the bit that’s adaptive…I think it’s behavioural. The subroutines are specifically designed for you and only you. They’re newer code, though, and much less elegant than the older bit.”

The confusion must show on his face, because Molly gets that impatient pouty-mouth. “Sherlock must have written this part recently and quite quickly. His usual flamboyant flair is missing, though it’s definitely his coding signature.”

John processes this information slowly. He had never cultivated a knack for software programming or development. The army had taught him how to repair synthetic limbs and properly inject nanites into torn flesh, not how to actually program them to function.

“So…the new part was some sort of a last-ditch effort to make the program operative?”

Shaking her head, Molly gives him a placating smile for his effort. “No, this portion was never intended to be a part of the original platform. He added it as some sort of final message.”

Her wording leads him to an odd conclusion. “Are you saying Sherlock knew he was going to die?”

Molly looks overly startled at the very idea. “How could he? Neither of you even knew that Moriarty was behind the Adler Virus.” She drops her voice. “Not even _he_ knew.”

John takes a deep breath and then releases it slowly. “Right, so then what? I activate the program and…I get a special goodbye message, just for me?” A surge of anger bubbles up John’s throat. “Sherlock bloody Holmes was an enigmatic son of a bitch at the best of times, so there is every chance that this could be an experiment in winding me up one final time for afterlife kicks.”

“Well, only one way to find out. I did activate the dormant subroutines, so it should be fully operational the next time you launch the program.” Molly shrugs. “Or, you could just ignore it. I can’t wipe it without destroying some of your nanite’s memory.”

“Yeah, let’s not do that. I rather like my shoulder remaining attached.”

Molly frowns. “They should’ve made use of bioweapons a war crime a long time ago.”

John can only grunt in agreement.  He then locks eyes with Molly and commands slowly, “In the meantime, we cannot let ‘Big Brother’ know about whatever Sherlock left in my head. He’s already after me because he thinks I have Moriarty’s universal hacking algorithm.”

“Still no luck in locating it?”

He shakes his head. “No, and at this point, I’m starting to wonder if it even physically exists.” A thought occurs. “And on the off-chance that Sherlock was insane enough to hide it in this program, more the reason to keep this quiet.”

With a grim nod, Molly turns to her computer and disconnects the link to John’s mind drive, then formats the base processor. They exchange a quick hug before John pulls on his face shield to keep the CCTV scanners from identifying him. He sneaks out of Bart’s through the expanded Underground tunnels, narrowly missing a patrol. Probably one of Lestrade’s. It would not do to get caught by him, especially after Sherlock’s untimely reveal of Greg’s true allegiance in front of the entire Yard just prior to his final fatal confrontation with Moriarty.

A fortuitously located troupe of protesters overload the scan grid long enough for him to get onto the Tube, and he uses a neural scrambler to avoid recognition by the checkpoints at each platform. John makes it back to the row of abandoned flats where he is squatting this week without being followed by any of the neighborhood’s more permanent inhabitants. He estimates he has another two nights before the gangs cotton onto his presence and he will need to move to other temporary accommodations.

This has been the routine since Sherlock’s death. He hides in the darkest corners of London like a fox pursued by two warring hunters, both trying to use their dogs to flush him out. But John is hardly helpless. And the hunters are finally starting to realize that he is a force of his own. He will not allow himself to be caught. Not while there is still a mission to complete.

* * *

The program activates smoothly, without any additional prompting. John is lying on his bedroll one moment and the next he is shading his eyes against the unfamiliar brilliance of the sun.

John stands in an open park area that looks like a mash-up of the vids they showed in primary school of old London. What London was like before the revolution and subsequent techno-industrialization, before the UK Civil War and the security grid installation. John inhales deeply, reveling in the lack of noxious tang and gagging odours. The omnipresent hum of generators and surveillance aircraft has been replaced by birdsong and the buzzing of insects. A light breeze tickles his exposed skin and the sun’s warmth reminds him of the long days on patrol from a lifetime ago. Even the simulators provided by the Army for recreational time had never given him such vivid sensory input.

An ordinary-looking bloke is patiently sitting on a park bench to the left of the path. There is a niggling at the base of John’s spine that directs him toward the man. He decides not to fight it, and leisurely walks up to the stranger.

“Um, hi?” John offers because there is no one else in sight.

The nondescript man turns to look at him and gives John a friendly but slightly uncertain smile while scooting over to one side of the bench. John takes this as invitation to sit. He covertly eyes the man for a long moment, rescans the surrounding area, comes up empty again, and frowns.

Maybe he needs to prompt the man? “Er, I’m not really sure what –”

“Altamont,” interrupts the stranger, extending his hand.

John clasps it with some hesitation. “John.”

The man is unremarkable in every way. There are no defining features, moles, nose shape, eye-colour, or facial hair. He is outfitted in what one might find in a secondhand shop (gunmetal grey button up, dark jeans, brown shoes, and black jacket over one arm). Even his haircut is dull – a bit too long for Army standards, but still short enough that styling is unnecessary. If John were seated next to this man on the Tube, he would not give him a second glance. His gut gives him no warnings and his libido is hardly peaked.

When Altamont does not seem motivated to say anything more, John asks, “So, um, what am I doing here?”

“This interface is an artificially-created algorithm designed to respond to inquiries and learn from human input.” Altamont says this very quickly and with little inflection, reminding John of the early AIs that lacked personality subroutines.

John purses his lips. Not quite the answer he was looking for, but maybe he needs to be more precise. “D’you have the hacking code? The one that Moriarty gave to Sherlock?”

Altamont turns his head to make purposeful eye contact. “No. That is not my purpose.”

“Right, um, any chance you could tell me what’s going on?”

“I am all that is here.” Still almost no inflection, which John finds a bit creepy.

He tries a different tactic. “Did Sherlock leave you a message to give to me? Anything for John Watson?”

There is a brief flash of latent recognition in Altamont’s eyes. “Yes.”

A giddy tremble runs through John and he speaks quickly. “What is it? What’s the message?”

“I’m sorry.” Altamont does not blink. “And I wish that I’d had the chance to tell you in person.”

John lets all the slack out of his spine and slumps back onto the bench. He feels emotionally compressed, his body sympathetically going through the motions of breathing as he scrambles to process his best friend’s last words. Despite the fact that these words are spoken by proxy, John can still hear the resonance of Sherlock’s voice, the rhythm of his speech.

There had been no time for any sort of final exchange between them. John had just finished telling Sherlock off for being so infatuated with Moriarty’s game when the message of Harry’s relapse had arrived. It had ultimately been a hoax set up by Moriarty, and by the time John had returned to 221b, Sherlock was already dead. That Sherlock’s last words would be apology, and that he somehow knew ahead of time that he was going to his death…

The unsettled pain resurfaces, and John gives himself a moment to grieve in silence. Altamont seems indifferent to his suffering and turns away to look off into the distance. It is a long time before John is ready to speak again.

He manages to croak out, “Was there anything more?”

“No.” Altamont’s answer is perfunctory.

“Oh. Then I suppose that’s it. You’ve delivered Sherlock’s final message.” John frowns. “Aren’t you going to disappear or shut off or something?”

“I will remain, ready to interact with you as frequently as you like.”

That catches John’s attention. “Really? Why?”

Altamont pats the unoccupied area of bench between them. “This is for you.”

John feels stupid. “This bench?”

“No, the artificial environment in this program. It is whatever you can imagine and I will adapt to become whatever you require. When you wish to leave, simply say ‘Vatican Cameos’ and you will exit the program. Stay as long as you like, return as often as you need.”

The enormity of the concept, of what Sherlock has created, leaves John awestruck. And it is all for him. He takes a few breaths while the situation solidifies in his mind. A disbelieving huff passes through his lips before he licks them and turns to look at Altamont once more.

“Right then, I guess that I’ve gotten all the relevant information for now. Uh, I suppose I should make sure no one’s tried to steal my supplies in the real world while I’ve been here with you, in my head.”

Altamont nods. “Goodbye, John.”

“Until next time,” he promises, and then utters the exit phrase.

John’s return to the dark, dank flat is as abrupt as his entrance to the program, though much less enjoyable. Talking to Altamont was not exactly the most exciting thing ever, but he really did savour the time he had been allowed to spend in the natural quiet under the sun. The fact that he feels better rested than he has in weeks certainly does not hurt. And then there is the limitless potential that Sherlock wrote into the coding _for him_. That certainly merits exploration. Yes, he will be visiting Altamont once more, and soon.

* * *

The second time he opens the program, the conversation with Altamont flows more smoothly. Instead of simply answering his prompts monotonously, the interface has questions of his own and speaks with intonation. Adaptive, indeed. John departs the program with a twinge of regret, wishing that he could risk just a little more time to relax in the artificial sunlight, but it is time for him to find a new location to hide, and that is best done under the cover of darkness.

On their third meeting, John notices that Altamont’s clothing and accent have become more refined. His hair is also darker, his skin lighter, and when they walk along the park’s path, he is noticeably taller than John. Their conversation continues to become more natural, and John talks to Altamont about simple topics, like nanite engineering and the latest data sanctions imposed upon the Net.

During subsequent meetings, they sometimes veer off into sensitive areas, like Harry and his time in the Army. John is franker and more exposed than he has ever been in his entire life with anyone, finds talking to Altamont better than any past therapy experience. He is slowly repairing himself, with a fragment of Sherlock’s coding nurturing him along.

However, they never talk about Sherlock beyond what was discussed in their first meeting. It is not taboo, John just never wants to go there. The wound has hardly scabbed over, and he fears that talking about it will make it raw and seeping once again.

John has several close calls with patrols ‘randomly’ inspecting the locations he is hiding. The increasing regularity of inspections might signify that Mycroft has found some way to track him. Fortunately, Moriarty chooses to livestream his hack of MI-6 at around the same time, so the majority of Mycroft’s attentions are temporarily diverted. John wants to ask Molly to check for tracker malware, but any contact always puts her at risk, and he is unwilling to hazard bringing further danger.

Discussing the issue with Altamont reveals an unexpected solution. The interface uses John’s own nanites to scan for any malicious coding and manages to destroy the virus efficiently. When he asks how Altamont managed to access his nanites, he is treated to a lengthy technical explanation that spares no details. Altamont proudly declares that he has accessed the Net and begun to learn all he can about everything.

John’s chuckles are met with confusion and he tries to explain. “You just sounded a bit like someone I once knew. And this is the first time that his memory has not depressed me.”

Altamont’s expression is childlike in its openness. “That’s good?”

“Yeah, it’s real good,” affirms John, as he grins at his friend with affection. And it truly is.

* * *

One day, Altamont looks over at him with a startlingly familiar countenance and John realizes that he is faced with a completely different man from the one he met months ago. Altamont has taken to wearing darker, designer clothing lately, sometimes accompanied by a heavy, wool coat. His hair has darkened nearly all the way to black and turned curly, his face lengthened slightly. Irises have gradually turned verdigris, lips have developed a distinctive cupid’s bow. His voice has even deepened to a facsimile of the one that used to order John to crime scenes and demand tea.

Suddenly, John is sitting across from someone who looks almost exactly like his favourite, deceased sociopath…and, it does not faze him, not like he knows it should. Because in this small way, Sherlock lives. In his mind, in this program, he has generated a way for his best friend to remain with him forever.

Altamont’s personality is also strikingly similar, though he is a more humanized and relatable version of Sherlock. Altamont is more emotionally reciprocative, more interested in John. And unlike Sherlock, Altamont actually listens to him, allows him to talk about anything and everything without judgment or dismissal.

He does share Sherlock’s irritating preternatural ability to know exactly what John is thinking before he does. Having access to John’s head might help with that one, though.

“You’ve considered asking me to change my name to Sherlock,” comments Altamont offhandedly one morning over tea.

“Er,” John _had_ actually contemplated asking, but only that once. “Maybe. But I rather think Altamont suits you.”

Altamont raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“It’s your name. And despite the fact that you may have the same mop of hair and considerable intelligence and snark, you are a different person. Not better or worse, just different.” John tips his head toward the table. “Pass me the jam, yeah?”

“Do you think of me as a person?” Altamont looks concerned. “Surely you do not need me to remind you that I am an adaptive computer program.”

“You are as real to me as any person I have ever known. And that’s good enough for me.” John gives Altamont a moment for that to sink in. “Now, give me the jam, you wanker.”

Altamont is temporarily stunned into silence as he passes the jam jar. John smirks to himself.

* * *

They only have one major row. Altamont is concerned by his recklessness and disregard of his safety after he is captured by a lucky patrol. Despite the fact that John manages to escape, Altamont takes it upon himself to further modify his nanites in order to monitor John while he is not actively in the program. John views this as a breach of his privacy and says as much. They have a blazing argument about how much of John’s mind is private and how much Altamont is allowed to access. But the fight does serve to establish boundaries in their friendship, something that was often lacking with Sherlock.

They both eventually apologize, despite their mutual mulishness.

* * *

Altamont takes him to places that exist only in photographs and vids, to times long past. John knows they are locations from his memory and imagination, that Altamont cannot create an environ without him. But it still feels like Altamont is custom-building worlds for him.

One night they walk along the Thames, which is restored to the state before it became a slow-moving cesspool of industrial chemicals and electronic waste. John marvels at the multi-coloured lights on the Eye, the droves of tourists and peevish Londoners, the relative lack of surveillance. They grab hot mulled cider from a vendor’s stand, and John smiles at all the holiday decorations. As the temperature drops, Altamont wraps his scarf around John’s neck with a sheepish grin. In appreciation, John occasionally bumps his shoulder playfully against Altamont’s as they stroll along the riverside.

For the first time since initiating the program, he feels a physical attraction to Altamont. At the end of the evening, John places a gentle kiss on the corner of his counterpoint’s mouth and immediately exits the program, juvenilely nervous about Altamont’s reaction.

The next night, he is greeted by a fierce hug and careful brush of lips. It only gets better from there.

Their first time is relaxed, spontaneous. Altamont pins him on the blanket they are using to stargaze, and the gloriously slow way he licks into John’s mouth has them both hard in mere moments. They arch into one another, seeking friction. John grips the backs of Altamont’s arms as his legs fall open, and he moans aloud at the feeling of Altamont pressed against him from mouth to groin.

It takes nothing more than John willing their clothing off before they are suddenly skin on skin. John gently bites Altamont’s lower lip and reaches between them to grasp both of their cocks.

“How do you want to do this?” he asks, breathlessly, slowly pumping.

Altamont’s gorgeous eyes sparkle. “I want you to have me, however you desire.”

John continues to languidly stroke them both as he growls into Altamont’s ear, “And if I said I wanted you on your back, helpless and yearning for my cock? If I told you I would lick you open and then push into you, fuck you until you begged me to let you come?”

“Oh, please,” whimpers Altamont, adamantly. “Yes, do that. Please, that.”

And John happily complies.

* * *

Eventually, John comes to realize that the things that he never managed to say to Sherlock in life apply to Altamont, too. Some days the two men are irrevocably indistinguishable and his feelings for both men are the same. It should probably disturb him that he has become so emotionally compromised by a being that does not exist, based upon the framework of a relationship that never actually happened.

But love is love, and there is no one to tell him otherwise. Not that he gives a flying fuck what anyone besides Altamont thinks anymore, anyways. John is happy to spend his nights wandering through digital paradise with his best friend, tackling imagined monsters and chasing down criminals from historical mysteries.

He confesses his love after the second time that he buries his cock deep into his paramour. They fuck one another in so many locations and with such variety that John starts to lose track of who had who where and how. Altamont is as inventive when it comes to sex, as he is with creating places for them to explore. And nothing could prepare John for how deeply he craves his beloved when they are apart.

He begins to spend more time with Altamont in their artificial reality, than he does in the real world. The visceral fear of being caught unawares by either Mycroft, Lestrade, or Moriarty slowly fades to inconsequence. And this, John knows, is a problem.

* * *

“I need you to put me into the program. Permanently.”

“John, I can’t.” Molly looks up at him in horror from an open drive she is reconstructing. The radiance from her bionic eyes makes her look like a wraith.

He steps into her personal space and drops his voice. “Please. I know you can.”

With a sharp little exhalation, Molly stands and wraps her arms around him. “It’s not a matter of capability. I…I made a promise.”

John pulls away from the embrace, but does not step back. “To whom?” he asks, firmly.

Molly’s expression turns fearful. “You know that you would die if you entered the program, it’s not like you could pop in for a bit and return to your body.”

“Of course, that’s the point of the thing.”

“No,” insists Molly, “You cannot give up on living.”

John laughs hollowly. “We both know it is only a matter of time before he or Moriarty catches me. The patrols are getting more frequent, and Moriarty’s hacks bolder. At least this way I chose how I go.”

There is grim resignation in the set of Molly’s mouth. “No, I won’t. I won’t let you die. Not when there’s…”

John cocks his head and raises his eyebrows. “When there’s what? Hope? I gave up on hope a long time ago, Molly. Now there’s only survival and that’s not enough. Not anymore,” he declares, bitterly.

“I don’t understand. What’s changed?” Molly beseeches.

“There’s no universal hacking algorithm. Moriarty tricked all of us into thinking there was, but it was a trap, tailor-made for Sherlock. I verified it weeks ago.”

Molly gasps. “But that would mean–”

“That he is chasing me for nothing and Moriarty is just fucking with all of us because it’s _fun_.” John finishes her sentence, grimacing.

“Still, you’re needed here, in the real world. To help get everything sorted properly again.”

John scoffs. “Who’s to say that that world isn’t real? There’s more for me in there than out here. Please do not deny me my happiness after everything that’s happened.”

Molly stammers out, “But, but, but what if there was some sort of guarantee that things would be better? What if someone gave you information that fundamentally changed your perception of the future?”

John rests a hand on Molly’s shoulder and regards her gravely. “Even then, my time here is finished. I did my due diligence. I fought for Queen and Country, stood alongside the greatest living man I will ever know while looking the devil in the eye. I don’t want to fade away here, letting all those good memories be replaced with the horridness that has become existing for the sake of existing. I have a good thing with Altamont…I don’t want to waste it like I wasted the last good thing I had.”

Although she still looks ready to protest, Molly considers John’s position for a long minute. Eventually, her shoulders droop and she bows her head, defeated.

“I’ll help you.”

John’s smile is wide and genuine as he pulls her into a hug. “Thank you, Molly. Thank you.”

As she returns the embrace, Molly’s heart slowly breaks.

* * *

Months later, Molly enters her lab to find a figure standing in front of the display running Altamont, watching the code streaming down the screen. The display’s luminosity shines a halo around the familiar silhouette. She pauses in the doorway, uncertain of the reception awaiting her.

“It was supposed to be a way for him to cope with my absence. I never imagined…” A hushed voice trails off. Long, tapered fingers reach out to alight on the edge of the monitor.

“Hello, Sherlock,” greets Molly tenuously, pulling off her face shield and setting down her acid mace. “Didn’t expect you back for another year.”

The tall man continues to study the screen, so Molly leaves him to it, checking the security grid on the room and running her daily checks for overnight digital incursions.

“You did this. You facilitated the uplink.” Accusatory, with the beginnings of despair. “Why?”

“Because he asked me to. Because he was miserable here and content there. Because there was a chance that you would never return and it was cruel to expect him to wait forever.” Molly looks at him with a pitying expression. “The adaptive software you wrote did its job. You just never imagined that John would turn the interface into someone he wanted to stay with permanently.”

“I need to get in there, see him.”

“No…Sherlock, you of all people know that there is no way that the platform you created could ever support your consciousness, too. It can barely handle John’s.” Molly sighs in regret. “If you had had a chance to write the program from scratch instead of superimposing it over the neural link one, it might have worked for two…but you would kill John by trying to modify it now, while it’s running. You shut it down to upload the new code, you kill him.”

“I know that,” he growls.

They watch the code flowing for a few quiet moments, the gentle hum of Molly’s generators and processors providing background noise.

“What was it…originally for? The behavioural part?” asks Molly, quietly.

Sherlock briefly glances at her. “I intended to use it as a way to study human nature.”

“Oh,” utters Molly, “Why would you want that?”

“I wanted it to feel, to understand emotion. Because of John.”

Molly frowns, confused. “The neural link would have done that. No, I’m talking about the adaptive part you added later.”

Sherlock continues watching the coding avidly, but his voice is flat. “That was for John.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” Molly cannot keep the empathy from her voice. She presses her lips together and tries to think of something consoling, but there is really nothing she can say.

“He is happy, then?” Sherlock asks, hopefully.

“Yes, the version of you that he created made him very happy.”

“Hmm. Good.” It does not sound like Sherlock thinks this situation is very good at all.

“Sherlock, I – ” Molly curses her inability to find the right words. “I know he was your friend. And I’m sorry that all of this had to happen. It’s not fair, none of it.”

His voice is strangled. “No, it’s not.”

Molly considers asking the question that she really wants to ask, then switches to something less invasive. “Did you find him? Did you get what you needed?”

There is a flash of emotion that Molly cannot identify, and then Sherlock’s face smooths back into its usual indifferent expression.

“You’ve secured this unit completely, of course. Even you aren’t foolish enough to risk Lestrade tracing it.”

Molly nods once. “Yes. Also, I supplemented it with a backup generator of its own, so there’s no chance of data loss with power failure. I will be sure to protect him from hacking, too. From either of your nemeses.”

The slightest upward quirk of Sherlock’s lips tells Molly that he appreciates her precautions. She tries to achieve a fond smile in return, but the impossible wretchedness of the situation leads her to sigh instead.

Sherlock seems to reach some sort of conclusive decision, because he performs his trademark inhalation and preening head lift. The edges of his trademark coat brush past her legs and Molly watches as he sweeps out the door. He is now a man not only alone, but obviously lonely, too. She wonders if she will ever see that dark silhouette again, if Sherlock will rush in one day with some insanely brilliant bit of code that will allow him to join with John.

She will wait for him, hope that he manages the impossible.

* * *

 

 

 

 

He never returns.


End file.
